


Fucking Like Falling Like Flying

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Bondage, Clothed Sex, Coming Out, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, First Time, Gender Identity, Kissing, Non-Genital Sex, Power Exchange, Power Play, Queer Themes, Rope Bondage, Sexuality, Stone Character, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've wanted to write a character with a stone identity for a while. This is that, and also kink, and also Sherlock as a deeply closeted trans woman. Mostly PWP, but I'm a sucker for talking about identity and then getting to the enthusiastically consensual porn. A little bit of kink, a little bit of romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking Like Falling Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this kind of thing, feel free to take part in my [fic poll](http://www.poll-maker.com/poll408430x67704433-16), where many bunnies are there to be voted on, including lots of queer and trans ideas.

This is by no means Sherlock's first rodeo. The woman at the door remembers her scene name from the last time, checks it off the list and waves her in with a smile that she returns in a manner that is somewhat more coquettish, if no more genuine, than the one she employs with witnesses and clients that need to be charmed. After checking her coat, Sherlock finds a spot in the large warehouse space where she's close enough to watch several scenes but not located centrally enough to be noticed herself. 

It's funny how the people here see, but do not observe. Technically she's putting herself at a significant risk -- her face has been in the papers; it's not so unusual for people to know it. But context is also powerful. She doesn't do anything different to her hair, but her makeup is subtly femimizing, smoothing out the strong jaw and deepening her eyes. The navy corset adjusts her figure somewhat, even with a blazer over top, and her low heels aren't meant to draw attention. There's no need for Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, to be in a BDSM club in Bethnal Green on a Friday night, and so he isn't. Or if anyone does recognize her, the strict confidentiality contract all members sign is a sufficient deterrent. The code of silence surrounding a place like this is quite effective. 

As usual, she's come to the playspace without a toybag, or any pretensions at pulling. She's not here for the play, and she doesn't come particularly often. But from time to time she needs to feel comfortable in her own skin, needs to not play at male, and this is a good space for that. She's neither the only trans woman there, nor even the worst passing, most nights. The dress code is less strict than some of the other clubs, so she doesn’t have to spend her money on fetish gear that doesn’t even suit her. Occasionally a man hits on her, but rarely is someone outright rude, and if they are, a layer of lipstick makes her no less cutting. She has a thick enough skin, or at least she thinks so until a man starts to pass by her bench, she looks up, and John Watson catches her eye.

_Fuck._

~*~

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John whispers, urgently. He’s sitting next to her, one hand on her thigh, but she doesn’t know when that happened. She must have checked out for a moment, not to her mind palace but to a kind of blank panic she only very occasionally inhabits. John looks very worried, but she notices that he keeps his voice too low for anyone else to hear her name. That's something. She schools her expression, tries to play at calm.

"My apologies," she murmurs, as curtly as possible. "It never occurred that you might be a member."

"Uh... yeah," John says, looking a bit stunned himself. “For a while now.” His forehead is still creased with worry. She observes, additionally, that he's dressed not in his normal date night attire, but rather a tight black vest, black jeans, and his combat boots. Her brain stutters a bit before she can fully summon an emotionless mask.

“I realize the awkward position this puts you in,” she offers, sitting up straighter and crossing one long leg over the other, dislodging his hand. “I can be out of 221 within a month. You'll have an easier time of it finding an alternative flat mate than I ever could, clearly, so..."

"What? Wait, no." John frowns. "Of course not. You think I want you to leave because you like to... or because you're..."

"A woman," Sherlock pronounces crisply, interrupting his fumbling. "Obviously. This complicates things."

“Sherlock,” John mutters urgently, leaning in so that Sherlock can’t effectively deny his gaze. “You _died_. You faked your bloody death, and I still came back, you berk. I'm not buggering off now because you're interested in a gender change."

"I'm not interested in a gender change. This is the gender I've always been. I just don't feel a need to discuss it," she corrects tightly, but with some hope. He's not behaving as if she's the first trans person he's been close to. Maybe she's not.

"Then that's fine. Like I told you before." John smiles, and puts a hand on her knee. "It's _all_ fine. Listen, do you want me to leave so you can pull? I get that you weren’t trying to come out to me like this… I don't mind if you want to work out a schedule going forward, so this doesn't happen again."

"Uh...no," Sherlock stumbles. "I'm not here to pull. That’s not why I’m here at all.”  She gives him an appraising look, reassessing her mental picture of Captain John H. Watson, and then plows ahead despite the niggling suspicion that this is a bit not good. “Do you mind if I watch? You?"

John's eyes widen a bit. "Uh... well, I suppose not," he decides, then nods as if to confirm it to himself. "If you'd like."

Sherlock nods. "If it wouldn't bother you," she adds, but it's so obviously an afterthought that John lets out a snicker, and then they're both giggling. 

"Yeah, all right then. Christ, this is weird — but not any weirder than usual, I suppose.” He licks his bottom lip, probably unintentionally. “I’ve got a date. Can you spot which one she is?"

Sherlock grins at the challenge and then scans the room slowly, so as not to be obvious. It's not a particularly difficult question, as there are only five woman here alone, excepting herself. A slightly nervous teacher in the corner seems likely, except this isn't one of John's usual dinner dates, and so he's not looking for a relationship but for some unknown "else." His short-lived girlfriends are never kinky, and yet he's here, so he must separate the two for some reason. What _is_ John looking for tonight? Sherlock doesn't know, but by process of elimination, she tips her chin at a slight woman in sharp heels with a severe spiky red haircut and lipstick a few times darker. "Her."

The whole process takes thirty seconds, and John beams. “Got it in one.” His eyes scan her face for a moment, no doubt taking in the cosmetics and trying to assimilate this new fact of Sherlock into everything else he knows of his flatmate. “See you after, yeah?” Sherlock nods her assent, and John shoulders his duffle bag and walks away as she's still soaking in the praise. 

She's not a voyeur, strictly speaking. While John and his date are negotiating, she stops herself from watching for microexpressions, honestly not caring about the woman. What she wants is to know why _John_ is here, what random hookups in a BDSM club have to offer him. It's not love he's looking for, she can tell. The redhead isn't looking for a relationship, and though they've met before, they're not familiar with one another. Perhaps they arranged for a play date after seeing each other in this club on an earlier occasion, or perhaps they met online. Sherlock suspects there's something John can get here that isn't available in a normal relationship, or perhaps it's a desire incompatible with romance for him--humiliation? Anonymous sex? Though, reviewing John's dating history as she orders a Perrier from the bar and dawdles a bit sipping at it, Sherlock thinks it's rather more likely that John _has_ been looking for that something in a romantic relationship and simply hasn't found it.

Once enough time has passed, Sherlock returns to her bench, still empty, and settles in to unobtrusively watch. John's picked a spot not directly in front of Sherlock's seat, but with a good line of sight, no other furniture blocking her eyeline. The spot itself is not near any play furniture, either, no spanking bench or suspension rig. John's bag is abandoned with nothing taken out of it but a bottle of water and a couple of black shapes on the floor that Sherlock can't make out. Her gaze wanders to other scenes as John snogs the woman against the wall, her leg creeping up to hook on the back of his thigh. Yes, John is good with women, sexually speaking. No shock there.

Sherlock ends up distracted by an elaborate rope suspension for a while, and doesn't turn back to John until she sees movement in her peripheral vision and turns to find John scooping the black things up off the floor, grinning at the woman as he tugs them on. Leather gloves, Sherlock realizes. Her breath catches a bit as she watches John hold his partner's throat, gently, and lift the other glove to her mouth to kiss, hand balled in a fist. John's back is to Sherlock, stance wide and confident, but he can see the woman -- topless, flushed from kissing -- as she presses her lips to his knuckles with eyes wide and reverent. She's no blushing virgin, either. Early forties, experienced. Her submission is earned, and John is confident in taking it. Sherlock's breath hitches when John pulls his fist back from her mouth, then slams it forward into her chest, pinning her to the wall with the thud of his blow. The air is forced out of her, but her eyes are burning with desire as she catches her breath, takes another punch with her throat still held fragile in his hand. 

_Sap gloves_ , Sherlock deduces from the weight of the punches, made from leather but packed with lead shot. Her mouth waters unexpectedly. The woman's eyes remain locked on John's -- perhaps obeying an order? -- as he works her over, eventually relinquishing her throat but still intense as he alternates between punches and gentler strokes with the leather. He gifts her occasionally with a heated kiss, but sometimes denies her open mouth when she unconsciously reaches for it. She's both powerful and feminine, and John handles her with an obvious expertise. He’s in control of her body, fully in what Sherlock sometimes privately thinks of as his “Captain” persona. Sherlock feels a heaviness in her gut and her mouth waters.

She watches, unable to look away, as John braces with one hand on the wall and then knees the woman in the cunt, a strong thigh driving force up into her body. Suddenly, Sherlock's corset feels too tight. The woman is gasping, crying out, and eventually cascades right over into a screaming orgasm that half the damn club turns to watch. Sherlock waits for John to reach for his flies, to take his cock out and give her the rogering Three Continents Watson is known for by such strong implication, but instead he bundles her down to the floor, takes her into his arms and reaches for the water bottle. Sherlock finds herself uninterested in observing the intimacies of aftercare, and heads out the back door instead.

~*~

“You didn’t have to abstain from fucking her on my account, you know,” Sherlock declares when they’re halfway to the main road, traversing sparsely populated side streets where there’s no chance of a stray taxi to offer them relief. Sherlock intentionally takes the long way round. She’s unbalanced by the attraction she’s feeling for John, an attraction she never really lets herself feel. “I’m not that modest.” John smirks and meets her eyes directly. 

“I know that. And I didn’t.” He takes her elbow, steers her to a row of steps outside a block of flats and sits down. She joins him, the step narrow enough that their thighs touch.

“I’m not quite sure how to have this conversation with you,” John admits, gazing up at the sliver of visible moon. Sherlock studies his face, trying to deduce what he wants to say before he says it, but she can’t, quite.

“You have some sort of unusual kink. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll get it eventually."

John barks a laugh. She had meant it to be reassuring. He doesn’t seem annoyed, though. “Not quite like that. Let me put it this way—have you ever heard of stone?” 

“Stone?” Sherlock frowns. “Is it some sort of euphemism? I’m really not _that_ well versed in BDSM, John. I only go to that club because it’s a place outside of the normal world where I can be comfortable in my own identity. I don’t accept any offers.” 

John smiles warmly, meeting her eyes again. “I bet you get them, too,” he teases, his eyes very briefly flicking down to her corseted waist, and Sherlock only has time to think, is he _flirting_ with me?, before John continues. “It’s not a euphemism for a kink thing,” he clarifies. “It’s an identity. I think…mostly with lesbians, but I read about it online when I was trying to figure this out and it fits me well enough, if you need a word."

“Figure what out, exactly?"

“My sexuality.” John shrugs. “Put it bluntly… by the usual definition, I don’t like fucking women.” 

“You’re _actually_  gay?” Sherlock asks, and thinks, very privately, _damn_.

John laughs and shakes his head. “No, you know I’m not. I’m basically straight, but I don’t have sex the way most blokes do. I’ve never been completely comfortable with it.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed but soldiering on with the explanation. “I relate to my body… to sex... differently than you’d expect, for a straight man. At some point I realized there were other options… and at some point long after that, I realized there was actually a way to theoretically have a healthy sex life the way I operate. But it’s not the most common thing, so…” 

“…so you frequent a BDSM club to find those who are interested in it.” Sherlock is fascinated. This has to be the most John’s actually said about such a private topic in one sitting, and it’s not at all what she would have expected.  

“Sort of,” John smiles. “I don’t go there _frequently_. Mostly when I’m in between girlfriends and I’m really itching for a casual fuck, but I don’t want to compromise. The women you meet in a pub looking for that kind of thing aren’t usually happy when you’d rather keep your clothes on, but I’ve found a fair few kinky women who actually prefer it.” 

“So… you dislike penetrative sex?”  

“Well. I’m not opposed to toys.” John shrugs and a little shiver goes up Sherlock’s spine. “But I like to keep my trousers on, at least. I don’t enjoy being naked with a sexual partner. Which most women find fucking weird, even if all the oral is nice on the first few dates. And I suppose it does… limit your options, if she’s relatively vanilla.” 

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees. “Most likely. I have observed that those in the BDSM scene have significantly… wider imaginations, sexually speaking."

John laughs. “They’ve taught me a few things, for sure.” 

“And yet you’re clearly not strictly vanilla,” Sherlock points out, brows raised. She pushes at John’s bag with her toe, and he holds his hands up, palms wide.

“Guilty as charged. I came at it the long way round, but… yeah, I’m into a bit of it. You remember Becca? The curly-haired one? She went in for some bondage, lasted a bit longer than usual because of it.” 

Sherlock doesn’t remember Becca, but she nods anyway. “You enjoy things that you’re skilled at. No reason that wouldn’t also extend to sex. Even tonight, you’re de-emphasizing your own role in sex with your choice of clothing, so that any focus turned towards you will rest on your skills rather than on your body.” She nods back towards the club, confident in her deductions. “You enjoyed dominating that woman. A woman who’s turned on by what you can do with pain or power exchange will pay less attention to what your penis is or isn’t doing, and thus is less likely to judge your sexual preferences. And you also derive pleasure from being able to please a woman with something you’re good at, from being able to stimulate reactions in her. Perhaps even sexual pleasure.”  

John grins. “Dirty.” 

“Accurate?” 

John nods. “Yeah. I’m not saying it doesn’t get me off, in its own way. Hell, ‘normal’ sex got me off before I gave up on it, it just wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do. This is better. It’s still fucking, for me. I suppose I get off on the power trip.” 

“Mm.” Sherlock nods, assimilating that into her mental view of John. “So you use the kink scene as a means of finding open-minded women, you learn the skills that will satisfy them, and when the women in your life inevitably leave you because they find the sex you have to offer lacking, you use this as an out. I always miss _something_ , don’t I? Infuriating.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Cheers, mate. I suppose I shouldn’t have been expecting a gold star from you.” 

“Well, it’s hardly a perfect long-term solution,” Sherlock chides. “What about your partner in these arrangements? Does it matter whether she gets off?”  

“Not always,” John shrugs. “I mean, I’m up for what they’re in it for. Not everyone’s looking for that, but… if they’re open to it, they usually do.” He smirks a bit, and Sherlock can’t help an eye roll at John’s bravado.

“What?” John grins. “I’m not modest. But that’s not always where the scene goes, either.” He shrugs. “I like that about kinky people, honestly. Sometimes they want an orgasm, or sex in the traditional sense, but not exclusively. And I’ve found that you can fuck a woman quite thoroughly with your boot or your knife…” He gets a bit of a far-off look, and Sherlock swallows, trying not to imagine what exactly John’s describing as the seconds tick by. Finally, he looks back to Sherlock, shakes his head, and grins. She’s not sure what makes her say it, but she ups the ante on his grin with a flirty smile of her own, and lets her voice go throaty. 

“Careful, Captain. You’ll make a girl wonder.”  

She lets the pause linger for a few beats, John meeting her gaze slightly wide-eyed, before a blush creeps up into her cheeks and she looks away. She’s half inclined to make a run for it when he catches her hand. 

“Hey.” His voice is gentle, appeasing the scared girl inside of her whose presence she'll admit to no one. “You don’t have to go through all of it tonight.” His thumb traces slowly over her knuckles, perhaps the most deliberately he’s ever touched her in several years of friendship. “I’ve got time.” It’s the gender stuff he’s worried about, she realizes, thinking that’s what bothers her. Looking back, she clears her throat.

“I don’t want you to treat me like I’m different,” Sherlock warns. “Like I’ll break.” She thinks of his hand on that woman’s throat, though, of his masculinity in contrast to his play partner's femininity, and of all the women John’s held their door open for, over the years, all the times he’s guided one of them out into Baker Street with a hand on the small of her back. She speaks again, suddenly, in a flare of courage after a long pause. “Still… a small part of me wants you to treat me like I could,” she admits. John nods, like he knows what she’s saying, and maybe he does. He tugs her up, shoulders his bag, and holds her hand the whole way home. 

~*~

The next morning is normal, more-or-less. John does a shift at the surgery, and he has takeaway with him when he returns. Sherlock scans the papers for interesting murders outside Lestrade’s purview and works on a couple of experiments. Over noodles, Sherlock blurts out the thing she’s been thinking pretty much constantly since their conversation the night before.

“You said that a partner doesn’t necessarily have to get off. For it to be satisfying. For you to…fuck them."

To John’s credit, he only blinks and finishes the bite of noodles currently on his chopsticks before answering. “Right.” He raises his eyebrows and waits patiently for an explanation, so Sherlock forges forward.

“Well… I don’t. Get off. I don’t like to.” She frowns into her paper carton and pokes at a bit of broccoli. “I’m not comfortable with a partner touching me sexually. I don’t want to think about what’s below my waist,” she elaborates. She’s about to keep barreling forward when John interrupts.

“You don’t have to explain that anymore, if you don’t want to,” he offers. “My girlfriend in med school was trans. I have a bit of a basic understanding.” At that, Sherlock’s eyes dart up to meet his.

“ _Oh_.” She stares at him for a moment, thrown. “You… what happened to her?"

John laughs. “She dumped me. I was really into her… honestly, I was a bit of a puppy dog. She was ridiculously smart, finished second in our class. I was pretty obviously holding her back, but she was nice about it. She’s a brilliant surgeon, lives in Edinburgh now.” 

“Huh.” Sherlock thinks about that for a moment, long enough that John eventually waves his chopsticks to get her attention.

“Anyway… you were saying?” 

“Oh. Right. I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock blurts out, her eyes dropping to her food again. She knows she probably looks unusually vulnerable, blunt though she may be, and she doesn’t want to think about it. “I want to keep my trousers on, but I want you to fuck me. Will you do that?” 

There’s a long enough pause that she thinks she might actually sink into the floor, but then there’s a shift and John’s on his knees in front of her, relieving her of her takeaway carton. “Hey. Look at me,” he requests, softly, taking her hands. She meets his eyes and sees a mixture of concern, surprise, and maybe — _maybe_  — interest. She hopes that’s interest. She’s really not an unbiased observer, at this point. “Is this about what I told you? Because I’m safe? Or is it something else? Either answer is fine.” 

Sherlock frowns. “It’s because you’re John. And you’ve given me permission to want you.” At that, John’s eyes brighten with humor, and he smiles. She hopes it’s not the “Sherlock’s done something socially awkward and I’m definitely just humoring him” smile.  

“Can you explain how I did that? Just, you know, for the rest of the class. The slow ones in the back.” 

Sherlock rolls her eyes. “You aren’t even bothered. I would know. You’ve seen me as a woman and you aren’t bothered, and you’ve never taken an interest in me, because you’re _not gay_ , but now you know and so I suppose technically I’m allowed to…want you. And I do. I have. For a long time.” 

John frowns a little, squeezing her hands. “Were you hiding that, then? In your mind palace?” 

Sherlock nods. “Apparently I’m…not very good at it. The hiding.” 

“Not really,” John agrees, licking his lips as he smiles. “If the opinions of three-quarters of the Yard are anything to go by. But that’s all right. I just… want to confirm that it’s me you want. Not someone to fuck you with your clothes on, generally. Because there are other options, where that came from, and less complicated options. I could help you find one.” 

“No,” Sherlock disagrees fiercely, gripping John’s wrists. “That won’t do at all.” 

“All right,” John concedes, tone soft. “Do you want to do this now?"

“As soon as possible,” Sherlock agrees, quickly, and John smiles at that. 

“Finish your tea,” he chides, handing her the box again. “And let me ask you some questions.” His own meal is mostly gone, so he sits on the arm of her chair, immensely distracting, as she tries to eat the remaining noodles and vegetables and pork as quickly as she can while still taking pauses to answer him. 

“Is there anything particular you like to be called? A different name?” 

“No. I’ve never chosen one outside of a scene name. Names are… complicated,” she admits, stabbing vindictively at a baby corn ear. He squeezes the back of her neck, though, and all her nerves immediately light up in anticipation of what’s to come. She swallows the corn without tasting it. 

“How about ‘girl?’” John asks with some hesitation, but also a sort of firmness in the way he suggests it. Warmth pools in her belly and she mutters an immediate “yes” into the next bite. He chuckles.

“Are you into dominance and submission?” he asks next. “Or just more creative sex than the usual?” 

“I’m not certain,” Sherlock admits. “I’m not a particularly sexual person. Normally.” 

“But you’re intrigued by what you saw last night?” John clarifies, fingers combing through her hair. She’s never noticed how sensitive her scalp can be when someone else is touching it. 

“Not the mechanics. The… tone. You were very commanding with her. I’ve seen that in you before."

“And liked it?" 

“Yes,” she admits quietly. _All the nice girls like a soldier._ John’s nails scritch at the back of her neck in reward, and she chews another bite. 

“So, trousers on. Shirt on?”  

“Not necessary.” 

“Any thoughts on toys?” 

“Sex toys? No interest.” 

“Sorry, I mean… like impact play, bondage, that kind of thing. Is that riding crop for more than just corpses?"

“Ah.” She blushes. “Yes. I have some rope I’m quite fond of. In my closet.”  

“Good girl,” John says, and she warms all over. Just a few more bites, and she eats them as quickly as she can without getting indigestion. “We can go slowly,” John offers. “Within reason. I do… I am excited about this,” he admits. “The attraction isn’t one-sided.” 

Sherlock considers. “I didn’t think it was,” she agrees. She knew, but she was afraid to know. “It confused you, though.” 

“I’m not really bicurious,” John admits. “I thought about it. I couldn’t think of a way it would work, physically. But I don’t want you to feel ashamed, either, if what you want changes. I might have some flexibility.” 

“It wouldn’t make you bicurious if I _wanted_  you to touch my penis,” Sherlock argues. “You do know that.”  

“Yeah,” John admits. “I’m sorry, yeah, I do. It’s just… sorry. I’m going to bollocks this up.”  

“You’re not sexually aroused by external genitalia. I don’t think it will come up.” John giggles, and Sherlock rolls her eyes at the double entendre. 

“Right, then. Give me that.” John goes to the kitchen to dispose of the takeaway containers, and when he comes back, there’s something different to the set of his shoulders, something appraising in his eyes. He’s Captain Watson, despite the ubiquitous beige jumper. 

“You have no name tonight,” John declares darkly, gently gripping Sherlock’s chin and caressing her jaw with his thumb. Time stops, for a moment, as she takes in the steady reminder of a calm control reflected in his eyes. “You’re to be my girl, unless you say ‘red’ or ‘stop.’ If you need to slow down, you can say ‘yellow,’ or just ask me for a pause. Otherwise, I’m going to improvise a bit. Understood?” 

Sherlock nods, breath catching in her throat. 

“Words.” 

“I… understand,” she murmurs. 

“Understand what?” John leans down, grip tightening, one knee balanced in her chair. 

“That I’m your girl tonight,” Sherlock repeats, sure she’s blushing. “Unless I say red, or stop. And I can also say yellow.” 

“That’s it,” John smiles, and then closes the distance to kiss her on the mouth, sweet and promising. Her lips part uncertainly, and he teases at them, licking and sucking until her breathing starts to speed up. “Do you want me to put you in rope?” John breathes, and she nods too quickly, eager. He grins at her.

“Show me,” John orders, standing up again and tugging her with him. He doesn’t let her get too much distance as she leads him into her bedroom, to the closet. He stands behind her, hands bracketing her hipbones, and tilts his head up to speak at her ear. “Sometime, I think I might like to shave your legs with my knife,” he flirts. Her hands falter reaching for the hanks of purple dyed hemp, and she thinks she needs the bondage if only to keep her body steady, keep her from melting straight into him and refusing to let go.

“I don’t have much body hair,” Sherlock admits. “Orchiectomy.” 

John takes the rope from her and guides her over to the bed. “It’s more about the knife,” he teases, dropping all the coils but one onto the bed as she sits at the foot of it and then pressing the last up against her neck, at her open shirt collar. She breathes in the distinctive smell of the fibers and almost twitches in anticipation of bondage. Normally it’s something she does to herself, with the door locked, while he’s out, but this is more appealing. “Would you trust me with a blade?” John asks, lips hovering over hers. 

“Yes,” she says without thinking. He licks her lips in reward and throws the coil loose, rope unspooling across the room from the center point held between his fingers. 

“I’d like your shirt off,” John says in between long, demanding kisses. “If you’ll be comfortable.” 

Sherlock reaches for her buttons in lieu of a verbal answer and removes it even as she eagerly receives more kisses from him. Rougher, she notices, his hand at the back of her neck again. He tugs her curls and she makes an embarrassing sound into his mouth, letting the shirt drop off her shoulders and shrugging the cuffs free. “How do you want me?” she asks, trying to get a read on what he has planned. 

“Unbalanced.” His tone is teasing as he flicks the rope into a quick sketch of handcuffs, tightens them around her wrists, and then yanks those up, back, arms behind her head before he wrestles her onto her back, onto the bed. “You should be careful when going to bed with someone you trust,” John teases, his voice low and building anticipation in Sherlock’s stomach as he draws rope across her throat. “You might give me more options than you realized.” 

“I hope so,” she parries, keeping her eyes locked on his as he pulls the rope into just the hint of a noose, enough to keep her from idly struggling. Indeed, a move that would prompt her to safeword with anyone else, but she lets John press one hand along her throat, gently digging in with the braided hemp, and then reach to pinch her nose shut before he kisses her again. She’s barely starting to feel dizzy when he separates their lips to allow her a breath, stroking her cheek. 

“Beautiful,” John murmurs. She wants to hide from him, and at the same time doesn’t at all. He tugs her up into a sitting position, letting the rope fall from her neck, and guides her wrists in front of her body again. “Do you want me to avoid marks?” he asks, teeth grazing over her neck as he loosens and removes the cuffs, then in almost the same motion brings one wrist up to her shoulder and starts tying her forearm and bicep tightly together. 

“No,” Sherlock decides, liking the way his teeth feel on her skin too much to ask for that. She could care less what anyone thinks of hickeys. John chuckles and sucks lightly at the spot.

“Greedy,” he teases, tying off the arm and then putting the other in the same position. Sherlock thinks she could probably escape the frog ties if she really wanted to, but she doesn’t, and the restrictive feeling of the rope starts to sink her below the churning electric field of her own thoughts. John grabs a larger coil of rope next and starts to work on her waist, tying a slow, tight rope corset. Perhaps a little cliched, but Sherlock loves the way it robs her gradually of breath, cinches her waist in. John stays close as he works, wrapping her in the tension of the ropes and keeping her on edge with little stinging bites whenever he leans in to reach behind her back. He finishes the harness off with a criss-crossed pattern that frames Sherlock’s chest, and when it’s all done, grabs at the front of it with a sudden yank that forces her up onto her knees. Her thighs burn with the effort not to fall backwards, but he has her, and after a moment she relaxes into the bite of the rope.

“Thank me,” John purrs, his eyes dark with want, his focus entirely centered on her. With anyone else, she’d call them on their arrogance, but John’s is well-deserved. She’s genuinely grateful for his attention, for his obvious desire. Anyone in his life who’s thought such things could only be measured by willingness to participate in sexual intercourse is impossibly stupid. Her entire body is on fire with how much he wants her.

And so Sherlock whispers her thanks, and John forces his tongue into her mouth, fucking her with nothing more than a kiss. “Good girl,” he offers when he lets her go, and then shoves her onto her back, sitting astride her hips. She can feel his erection, but she’s more interested in the way his hands fist in her hair and make sparks fizz in her blood when he demands more kisses, her breath short in between them. There’s a warm, diffuse sensation of pleasure radiating outward from her own groin, but it’s not unpleasant, not with him. She makes soft sounds against his mouth and he eats them up, rewarding her with little nips and sucks.

When he finally slows things down, she wants to protest that it hasn’t been long enough, that she could go hours more. But he doesn’t stop abruptly, either — a slow bite pressed just above her clavicle goes deeper, burning bright until she’s crying out, hands clutching into fists, back arching. He doesn’t relent, and finally she hits the point of pain where she’s flying, invincible, bound to him by some almost-physical chain of energetic connection. He lets her go slowly, and she’s truly floating as he starts to unbind her, moving just as gradually as he did the first time around. She curls up in the “John” wing of her mind palace as he does it, in front of a fire, surrounded by thick blankets smelling of him, and luxriates there in a body that is not her body for as long as she likes, until the last rope is finally untied and he’s guiding her arms down very slowly, massaging circulation back into her fingers. She opens her eyes and stares muzzily at him, grinning like she’s drunk or stupid. He doesn’t complain, though, just lies down next to her and strokes his fingertips down the line of her spine. He kisses her and she thinks that if most people would define this thing between them as “not sex,” or “not sex enough,” then most people are stupid.

But she knew that already.

~*~


End file.
